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From The Inns of the Middle Ages, by W. C. Firebaugh, Chicago: Pascal Covici; 1924; pp. 157-171.
[This book is primarily composed of an uncredited translation of Histoire des hotelleries, cabarets, hotels garnis, restaurants et cafés, et des anciennes commonautés et confréries: d’hoteliers, de marchands de vins, de restaurateurs, de limonadiers, etc., etc., by Francisque Xavier Michel and Edouard Fournier, Paris: Librarie Historique, Archéologique, et Scientifique de Seré, 1851. — Elf.Ed.
THE INNS OF THE MIDDLE AGES
[257]The first establishments with which we shall deal are those which persisted in the conquered territories of Italy. They were in the provinces under the dominion of Theodoric, and had, for many years, been highly profitable to their owners. The keepers of these hostels and pothouses were of the good old Roman strain, with perhaps a little of the Asiatic about them, as Petronius says. Steeped in all the cunning and vice of a civilization which had taught them the necessity of caution in plucking the finer fruits of success, their survival amidst the hardier barbarian types is characteristic, but, like many adventures in modern business, their real profits were not derived from legitimate sources. Secure in the possession of their properties, they sought the free and untrammeled exercise of their ancient craft and artifice in the cruder times which had dawned, and the codes of the untutored barbarians presented little difficulty until their rapacity caused the wrath of Cassiodorus, minister of the Ostrogothic king, to fall as an avalanche on their devoted heads. Having resorted to the use of two systems of weights and measures, one for customers known to them, the other for strangers, they cheated the latter without the slightest compunction, and in this way paid their respects to those laws of hospitality which, to their conquerors, were sacred. Cassiodorus was an honest man: even in Republican Rome, he would have been [10] distinguished. Intelligent, courageous, immovable, once he had made a decision, he was in every way a worthy minister of a Gothic monarch distinguished alike for an abiding love of truth and justice. [Sainte] Martin, the naïve biographer of Cassiodorus remarks:
“He caused a moderate price to be charged for the necessities of life. Those who retailed such commodities suffered thereby loss, although they made only a reasonable profit, while those who purchased had little or no occasion to complain. In his edict, in which he dealt with this subject, he specified the various commodities and set the prices to be charged for each, sentencing those who were guilty of infractions to pay a fine and, in addition, to be bastinadoed, reaching them all in his manner, as their fear of losing their goods, and their detestation of corporal punishment restrained the ardors of their rapacity and bridled it thereafter. And inasmuch as those conducting the hostelries placed an equivocal interpretation of the meaning of the edict, pretending that its provisions were applicable only to the citizens resident in the place, and not to strangers who chanced to lodge in their houses, and tavern keepers, in their dealings with the latter refused to heed the sumptuary regulations prescribed in the ukase, Cassiodorus promulgated a second decree, a veritable litany which should be printed in letters of fire and be the creed of all bonifaces since his time.
“Why,” he asked, “if a fair price has been determined upon in favor of a people living in peace in their country or village should they not have compassion on the stranger and the wayfarer who must assuredly suffer enough elsewhere in catering to his [11] necessities?” He maintained that they ought to receive a cordial greeting, one and all, to put them at their ease and soothe the aches of travel, homesickness and fatigue. Measures should be taken to lodge incoming travellers in comfort, and not to subject them to cruel and rapacious vexations which were totally unnecessary, if not actually tyrannical. They ought to be received as guests who were to pay not single iota more than the prices stipulated, even as a guest who has been invited to partake of hospitality and to whom the host wishes to show favor is not to be the prey of devouring avarice, a mere pigeon for the plucking. To do otherwise is but to follow the example set by the thieves and robbers along the great roads, who lure travellers into their clutches for the sole purpose of despoiling them. Nor should these tavern keepers imagine themselves immune or beyond the power of justice which as a detestation for places such as these. In summing up the situation he forbade them to tamper in any way with the prices fixed by the officials whom he had detailed to visit these establishments for the purpose of regulating them and everything in which they were concerned, in concert with the citizens and the bishops. From then on, during his regime, those conducting an inn or tavern were forced to content themselves with an honest profit, and no longer could it truthfully be said of them they were the allies and friends of all the thieves and bandits lurking along the roads and exercising their phlebotomic calling.”
Nor was the simile which Cassiodorus coined, between the tavern keepers and the outlaws exaggerated [12] or out of place, in the times with which we are concerned. In past ages, the tavern keeper had been guide, philosopher friend to all the evil reprobates in his neighborhood. His establishment was the sanctuary and base of operations for every [cut-purse] who stalked his quarry along the trade routes or in the rear guard of the marching legions. He was their fence, and his commission was always paid. When Fulke, archbishop of Rheims was assassinated, an innkeeper divided the spoils with his murderers, and it was in an inn that his body, picked up from the side of the road, and gaping with innumerable knife thrusts, lay after its recovery by his followers. As receivers of stolen goods the taverns and inns had no equal, a fact well attested by the writings of Gregory of Tours, who tells of a robbery committed one night in the basilica of Saint Martin. The principals would probably not have been discovered except for a brawl that broke out unexpectedly among them, and which led to their capture in the tavern which served them as a sanctuary.
There is plenty of evidence upon which to base the statement that the taverns and inns of the fifth century were generally mere hovels, poorly roofed, and, thanks to that, perhaps less smoky than would otherwise have been the case, as we do not find chimneys in general use until many centuries later. Their wine was of the poorest, and such as there was, diluted and adulterated. They set a miserable tale; the vegetables served were badly washed, carelessly prepared, and finally, poorly cooked. Saint Ausuin, bishop of Camerine, spoke from the bitterness of his soul when he denounced, in terms scarcely to be [13] expected from a grave and temperate ecclesiastic, he villainy and double dealing of a tavern keeper at Nanni, who, after insulting the priestly stomach with adulterated wine, overcharged its furious owner and made him pay ransom for the privilege of being poisoned. The pork served in these establishments was leprous, and, in the light of later information, teeming with trichina; the beef was the cheapest obtainable, from lean cattle which were probably tubercular. Choice viands, such as poultry and game fowls were only within the means of the wealthy, whose income justified almost any expense necessary to satisfy their tastes in good living. Some idea of the cost of poultry may be derived from the fact that it was usually served on the royal table, and it has been said that a fowl, served after having been cooked with the spices and condiments in use in those times, would have cost not less than twenty-five dollars in our money.
It should be further remarked, in justice to royalty, that poultry, in those times, was served usually on special occasions only. Chilperic once had misunderstanding with Gregory of Tours, and, wishing to appease the choler of the churchman, could find no better expedient than that of inviting him to the royal table. The invitation was respectfully refused, and the king, seeing his design on the verge of failure, the besought the prelate to do him the honor of at least tasting a chicken pie. This was a very flattering invitation and one which the austere bishop could not find it in his heart to decline.
The best dish obtainable in the inns was fish, fresh from the river; and Ausonius, in his poem on [14] the Moselle speaks of the pike caught in that stream and cooked in the ovens of the eating house:
“The pike, that ravenous enemy of croaking frogs, repulsive is he, and not in use at our tables, but he goes to pot in the taverns which reek with his foetid vapor.”
Should one be seized with a fancy for oysters, or with a desire for information as to the better grades, he wasted no time in questioning innkeepers. Delicacies such as these were refinements in which they were untutored, and on this account we find Ausonius who was well versed in good living, taking ample precautions against entrusting his person to their keeping or his stomach to their mercy.
“Never have I had to rely upon the taverns for information, nor upon such people; nor yet again upon such gatherings of parasites as Plautus has described. It always happened that on feast days I was entertained by friends who took their turns in inviting me to their tables, whether on account of a birthday, a wedding, or some day set apart by their ancestors.”
In the times with which we are dealing, the greatest injury was done the inns by the universal custom of holding banquets and feasts of all kinds in private homes, without ever taking the proprietor into consideration or consultation: a thing which effectually prevented him from laying in a supply of good vintages, or serving delicacies or appetizing foods. Men did their heavy drinking at home, at their own tables or at those of friends or cronies. The worst of the kidney were, then as now, the solitary drinkers; but when some group did carry on in [15] a tavern the lengths to which they sometimes went were not in the least circumscribed because the affair was taking place in a pothouse. The sermons of Saint Caesarius are striking, if not eloquent testimony of this and his biting invective against drinking and drunkenness might well have been placed in the mouths of our own spigot-bigots, though, truth to tell, he does not mention the taverns!
Augustine and Chrysostom permitted drinking in moderation, providing it was not done too publicly, but both were more inclined to stick to the golden mean that Caesarius. The ninety-first sermon of the latter is, throughout, a vehement arraignment of drunkenness in every class of society, but it is directed principally against those living in the country.
“When they have wine, when the vintage has ripened, or whenever they have brewed something to drink, they straightway invite their parents and neighbors, as though there were to be a wedding feast. The guests are entertained for four or five days, drinking as much as they can hold, and they will not leave off this deplorable debauch and return to their homes until all the brew they were invited to drink has been consumed.”
And who are we to make odious and carping comparisons between our own arid era of spigot-bigotry, [bootleggerdomain], scoff-outlawry and synthetic gin, and those more primitive and direct ages of the Merovingian dynasty, and conclude that, because they yielded to a custom as old as the product of the vine and drank and danced under the light of the harvest moon, perhaps with the very nymphs of the vintage, that their thirst was more ardent, unbridled [16] and lawless than our own? Reading further, we find the fiery old ecclesiastic censor alluding to a ruse designed to excite thirst in those unwilling to imbibe:
“They prepare ragouts,” says mine author, “salt them well and spice them highly, that they may cause an irritating thirst and lead to more unbridled drinking!” Where are the pretzels of yesteryear; and what of the parched corn so salty that one always had to have another stein, yet so efficacious in preventing the consequences of [uxorius here= uxorious] despair or indignation by masking the odor of the breath? Alas, these objets d’art shall know our caravansaries no more, I fear.
Our good old churchman makes mention of still another detail no less curious than amazing.
“When the repast was finished, each guest, in order that he might get another drink, took the name of some saintly patron, and paid his respects drinking a health!”
A very pleasant solution to a problem that is sometimes decidedly inconvenient; and as imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, let us refresh our memories by a perusal of Butler’s Lives of the Saints or Foxe’s Book of Martyrs.
This little custom is in reality a very interesting survival in culture, and much might be written upon it. It is the expression of an epoch in which the forces of paganism were slowly but surely yielding to those of Christianity, and the ancient lowly still clung with fervor to the former, though their faith was beginning to take root in the latter; hence there was no sacrilege in the minds of those taking part in [17] the ceremony of libation. Gentlemen, men of standing and wealth, and even great nobles were not in the least ashamed to enter a drinking bout, and when the affairs over, they were not less inebriated than the rest and scourged any slaves they suspected of having filched drink of wine. Caesarius has something say on that score al, and among other things, he propounds a riddle:
“How can any serf suffer in patience amongst so many because of the intoxication of a single noble, and, with that in mind, who can have the hardihood to get intoxicated?”
After this fine oratorical gesture of indignation meant to recall drunkards to the even tenor of a life of sobriety, he discusses the peculiar rivalries that spring up among toss-pots: their contests for supremacy in capacity, their sarcasms at the expense of such as drink moderately, if at all. In the ninetieth sermon, after giving some little attention to the roistering topers who compete in duels such as we have indicated, he mentions also a certain custom peculiar to the country, where the peasants were ever keen on such diversions. Three tillers were chosen haphazard, each was compelled to down a quantity of wine determined upon in advance, but always a staggering measure:
“I am aware,” says he, “that in the orgies you hold for one another, you invoke a practice derived from the superstitious images of the pagans: one which was held in much esteem amongst them. From among your convivials you choose three men to drink huge bumpers of known amount, either of [18] their own free will, or by force; a custom as disgraceful as it is infamous.”
Gormandizing and drunkenness were so deeply imbedded in the usages and habits of the Franks that, in order to secure consideration of anything whatsoever it was deemed necessary first of all to give a banquet. This was a formality which, in some cases, the law itself had not only countenanced but actually had come to require, and there is little evidence that shows any inclination to ignore an ordinance that sat so gracefully upon the shoulders of private Necessity and official Expediency. In those good old days, many an heir at law succeeded to a doubtful inheritance by virtue of a banquet tendered and held his title until a more sumptuous entertainment was staged by a rival, the title passing from hand to hand until every heir was impoverished and the law had come into its own. Different ages breed different methods of procedure, and who shall say that this fine old custom had not much to recommend it? Our own ferocious inheritance taxes are based upon the same principles, but for the benefit of such of readers as may be interested in the subject I respectfully refer them to the forty-sixth title of the Salic Law.
The giver, armed with his buckler, repaired to an audience with the count, to whom he submitted the judgment of three causes; then, taking a wisp of straw (festuca), he launched it against the breast of some man who was a stranger to him (qui ei non pertineat), and announced in a loud voice his intention of bestowing upon that man all of which he was possessed, or stipulated part thereof, the sole condition [19] being that the latter, in his turn, should remit it to another person also named in the declaration. Thereupon the three betook themselves to the home of the giver, the table was spread for three guests, to whom he proved that he was in complete possession of the goods transmitted. The second was then bound to render an accounting to the heir, whose intermediary he was in transactions with the giver, but before doing this he launched another wisp of straw against the recipient’s breast, pronounced his name in a loud voice, and indicated the goods which he pretended to transmit to him in their integrity.
This was then the occasion of a second repast, again with three guests, chosen this time by the done. He treated them as though he were master of the house, serving them with pultis, a stew which was the national dish of the Franks, and was a sort of porridge made of oatmeal and water. It was [well-nigh] indigestible, and bore a close resemblance to the charcoal burner’s standby which, in the Norman dialect is called “poult” but which Dr. Johnson, in the first edition of his dictionary characterized as fit for horses in England but for men in Scotland. This poult was a necessity at the dinner as the transfer could not have been legally made otherwise. A diet such as this would require a good washing down; the laws provided for it and the courts awarded it, and you may be sure that the Franks did not fail to carry out the spirit and the letter of the admirable regulation. In case the bequest was disputed, and a legal entanglement resulted, the one, by the testimony of the three witnesses, was able to offer evidence that everything been faithfully performed. The [20] Franks drank heavily at their meals and whenever one of their tribesmen took possession of a new abode, he gave an elaborate feast when he hung his pot-hooks, as the proverb has it, and perhaps it is from the ancient feast of poult that many of these ceremonies and dedications take their origin.
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Chaucer’s Pilgrims
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Note
1 Athenaeus, Lib. I, 61, Yonge’s translation.
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